And sometimes somewhere in the middle of long stalks of spiteful weeds and tilted cement we find something that we thought we had lost. Floating along the lines of questions and confusion, she finds herself in a place familiar. Familiar because when she stands there time lets her know that he will not wait for her, a feeling ever so similar to a halted beat. Because suddenly a peculiar realization surfaces, one that is mixed with a dizzy cloud of the past and fictional memories. It is painful. The seeded fruits wilt to its side while the toes of children remain shoeless, unprotected and unsafe.
Then the wind decides to whisper so she dreams. The pathway seems to narrow itself, slicing the wind as it tries to escape. The walled windows gray from the miserable air of contempt and regret seem to stand upon itself in order to find what little light the surroundings had left. The smiles that remain in the small town are but of the echoes of children, too naive to realize that they soon will be unable to find that place of ease that currently filled them.
28.10.10
13.10.10
I delighted in the fact that he watched over souls.
The graves keeper kept quiet and followed. The musty sun was trying telling me that he once witnessed my 12 year old mother drive a car through the rice paddy fields with kids in the backseat. He hoped that she would not fall in. And while he was trying to talk to her, he now felt a distance. He continued to follow. It was a type of distance two childhood friends feel when they move away from each other and see each other. Voices familiar become watered. I think the dirt roads were also trying to tell me something, but I couldn't quiet hear clearly. Our wheels barely noticed, having gone through on nice flat cemented roads. Hidden underneath, the bumpy road whispered to me, that my dad once ran through it not knowing the events the future held. The road did not know he would not see my dad for more than 30 years.
And as he crept closer, my attention was finally caught. Distracted by the sun and the dirt roads, I had not noticed that he was there. I read the "Noi Quy" (rules) of the cemetery. The words foreign. A man of calm, he wore a washed out one piece uniform precariously holding a cigarette in his mouth. Maybe so the ghosts can identify him. I had found myself in a cemetery to the left of Ba Temple in Chau Doc, a very famous Buddhist temple with devout followers who during a certain time of year make their way there, hundreds and thousands of people go to Chua Ba every year pouring our their struggles, hopes, and dreams. She listens. He follows. The sun and road tire.
We enter the cemetery after we convince our mom that she should find her grandmother's grave. Having made it here after hours and miles of travel with a plane, bus, and car I told her your grandmother is going to be angry if you don't see her as we were just outside the gates. My mother did not remember the sun. He was foreign to her. It was a small cemetery, consisting of Chinese people. Like her connection to the sun, she could not remember where the grave of her grandmother was. We looked and looked, and I stood there rather helpless since I could not read Chinese, I decided that the sun, dirt, and graves keeper could keep me company.
And as he crept closer, my attention was finally caught. Distracted by the sun and the dirt roads, I had not noticed that he was there. I read the "Noi Quy" (rules) of the cemetery. The words foreign. A man of calm, he wore a washed out one piece uniform precariously holding a cigarette in his mouth. Maybe so the ghosts can identify him. I had found myself in a cemetery to the left of Ba Temple in Chau Doc, a very famous Buddhist temple with devout followers who during a certain time of year make their way there, hundreds and thousands of people go to Chua Ba every year pouring our their struggles, hopes, and dreams. She listens. He follows. The sun and road tire.
We enter the cemetery after we convince our mom that she should find her grandmother's grave. Having made it here after hours and miles of travel with a plane, bus, and car I told her your grandmother is going to be angry if you don't see her as we were just outside the gates. My mother did not remember the sun. He was foreign to her. It was a small cemetery, consisting of Chinese people. Like her connection to the sun, she could not remember where the grave of her grandmother was. We looked and looked, and I stood there rather helpless since I could not read Chinese, I decided that the sun, dirt, and graves keeper could keep me company.
He seemed to have dust on him. The kind of dust that won't wash off. His skin was dark and folded, the sun too familiar with him. He followed us into the cemetery without telling him who he was, but he immediately offered help in trying to find the grave. Modest, he revealed that he watched over the cemetery."I look over this place, I know that TeoChow people are on the left and Hanh people are on the left." After talking to him, we told him a family member's name and he knew which grave it was. It's this one and the other one way in the back. He knew all the graves. I was fascinated that this was his life. In fact a tad delighted that he was the constant presence among souls long gone, and that he spent most of his days with the souls of graves. Stories tucked underneath cement he would never hear. However, I would imagine that watching over the graves, one would piece together stories as relatives came in and out paying their regards. Moms, Children, Dads, Uncles and Aunts sparsely make up the identity of the soul he watched over.
We asked him to help our family take a picture with my great grandmother, but he advised that taking pictures in three was not a good idea, that it was bad. He was superstitious, naturally. We thanked him for watching over the cemetery. And as we left, our wheels driving over the dirt road, I couldn't help but think that another piece of the puzzle was given to him, as he tried to piece together the stories of souls.
12.10.10
Cục Gạch Quán is my favorite restaurant in Vietnam.
My aunt, who I refer to as Mommy, was extremely skeptical of a restaurant that I would recommend. Being the great cook and picky eater that she is, she gave me a hard time before I convinced her and the family to come along with me and trust me.
"This place is probably for foreigners."
"Okay, Kim and Rebecca can eat here first and then me and you [my uncle] can find another place later."
"Just because this place looks nice does not mean the food is good"
"This place is so empty"
And so with a series of ego hurting remarks I became sorta paranoid that my aunt would not like the restaurant therefore be grumpy the whole night. However, my aunt has been back three times since then. YES WIN!
Cục Gạch Quán literally translates to Stone Restaurant (Correct me if I'm wrong). The decor was what originally drawn me to it, owned and designed by a Vietnamese architect I had really wanted to go just because of the vintage music devices they had lying about the place but it was the food that had me coming back for more.
The atmosphere is warm and welcoming like your "grandmother's home." I was confused when I first walked in because it literally seemed like I just busted into someone's house.
Reservations are recommended for big groups, but I've been able to drop by with no problems every time. In order to go upstairs you have to cross this small river bond (see photo below.)
They serve traditional homey Vietnamese dishes to your liking. Like it fried? Then have it fried. Like it sautéed? They can do that too. Or would you rather just have it boiled? Then request it. The entire restaurant only has one vietnamese menu and one english menu. People usually just come in having already ordered what they wanted over the phone or just asking the waiter what's good. Each dish I've tried is pretty damn good. Though I don't have any of the photos here (since I gobbled down the food before I realized I forgot to take a picture) I'd recommend the fried soft tofu with fried lemon grass and their fried soft shell crab. YUM. Each dish is suppose to have a "homey grandmother" feel to it. Basically you come in and tell them what kind of soup, vegetable, and meat you'd like and how you would like it and there it is - you have a feast of a meal made just how you want it to be.
Is that a stalk of morning glory (rau moung) used as a straw? YES!
Besides the awesome decor -outside the door it says "Office of the architect" in Vietnamese - It's all the small things in this restaurant that draw me back again and again. You can see the owner's ideas and thoughts really come to life from the building itself down to the utensils you use. Their vintage dish ware is from a long time ago, the glasses are purposely egg carton shaped, and the entire restaurant looks like someone's home. There are three areas of the restaurant: the front of the house (1st Floor), the attic, and the book room (2nd Floor). I prefer the attic, personally since the small door that enters that area makes it seem like your stepping into a whole other place. There is a bed that is turned into a table, and comfortable lounging chairs.
I'd recommend not coming on the weekend as it gets outrageously busy and crowded which is not the atmosphere that I first fell in love with. Service tends to be really overwhelmed at that point as well. I'd recommend a tad early around 5:30 pm, on a weekday. The restaurant is pretty much all yours.
Done. ăn ngon miệng nhe!
So enough of my nonsense talk. Just try it. Aw hell, if I had a date this would be the place I would take him. For folks coming by to Saigon I'll take you to this place if you'd like, as long as you don't give me a hard time like my aunt.Address: 10 Dang Tat, District 1
Price range: 30,000 vnd to 200,000 vnd
